


Like It Happened, Like It Will

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, WHATEVER just don't tell them one is an asshole and the other is married so, WHO ACT LIKE A TEXTBOOK EXAMPLE OF ENEMIES TO .... trope, and then IT BECAME ALL FEELS AND SOFT and GASPS they might be in love a bit here, but what can you do there was a mighty need, god even tagging them as the characters is wrong wrong wrong, it was supposed to be casual pwp between ATHLETES, so i released the need
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 15:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: They’ve been meeting ever since, every year, in a clash leaving the ground tremble, leaving marks on them. They have grown into a strange kind of constant. Into the inevitable.





	Like It Happened, Like It Will

*

_Wimbledon ‘14_

The boy is as fast as the wind and as bright as the sun of Mallorca when he takes the grass from him. There’s familiarity of an islander to him and there’s rogue passion that reminds Rafa of himself. Rafa fights, gives his all. Like he always does. With everyone, whether it is a top seed or a qualifier Rafa always bleeds himself dry. But with this boy it feels different.

More.

_Deeper._

There’s a feeling of déjà vu in him. Like it happened before. Like it will happen again.

The boy falls to the grass of the court of his kingdom but he couldn’t seem taller. And shining brighter than the midday sun casting reflexes on the surface of crystal blue water back home.

Rafa does the honours, clasps his hand in a congratulatory gesture. The boy leans closer, with a smile that is both cheeky and disbelieving. And maybe holds Rafa’s hand longer than it’s necessary. Rafa doesn’t think about it. Tries not to think about it, as he salutes the crowd and disappears into the locker room (or into disgrace it feels like it).

He’s breathing hard under shower, like swept by that wind, like blinded by that sun. The adrenaline is leaving his body or is it? He’s buzzing. He’s taunt. He’s become a puppet in the fate’s play and the strings are beyond his control.

“Should I say thank you or sorry?” the boy is here. Wearing Wimbledon white (Rafa ignores the way it brings out the shade of his skin, for some reason something he notices), wearing Wimbledon win high on his face.

“None. Just a good match, si?” Rafa’s in his towel, lost in the thoughts, sitting on a bench. Now rushing to do something, anything. Instead of feeling pinned by this boy even here.

“Was it good for you too?” why does it sound so wrong. Rafa’s hands are clammy all of a sudden.

“4 good sets of a solid game? Of course it was,” an offhand, general statement. To drive him away from here. From Rafa’s space.

The high on kid’s face falls into a frown.

“Does someone write these answers for you? What happens to the bull off court?” blinding, sweeping, like the force of nature.

“I lose before, boy. It’s not that big deal. Don’t make it to be,” he doesn’t really have to, he’s the sun, he’s the star, the gravity will work in his favour anyway. Rafa will fall to it too. Maybe he already did.

“Keep telling yourself that. See you around,” the kid starts shedding clothes as he goes to the shower cabin, making Rafa abruptly turn his gaze away, the shade of red in his peripheral vision turns the buzz inside him into a growl. 

*

_Rome ‘16_

The clay is his home. The clay is where he rules. Where he shall rule and no one can take it away from him. Not him. Rafa spells it with his game: _this is my throne and you are not allowed_.

Confident, strong and committed.

Nick still manages to storm his castle, to leave crack on its walls. With all his passionate resolve. Still shining bright. A stormy breeze before the heavens open to swallow the ocean. The buzz inside Rafa made room for that growling impatience whenever they clash now permanently. The red on Nick’s shirt is the red he sees on him always, like blood pulsing under his skin to spill. The beast inside him had its fill on court, returning from the game tamed and placated, before.

Not with him, though. Now, the beast is never asleep.

Nick is the one sitting on a bench this time. Showered. (It makes Rafa wistful. Clay on Nick’s skin would be a mark of ownership.) He’s lanky, but strong. Could be. Rafa thinks of what could he become. With clay on his skin for Rafa to model from.

“Tough. Not this time. But a draw is an invitation for more, yeah?” Nick always sounds like he’s mocking or teasing or both and Rafa can barely hear him over the rumble inside him.

“Sure. You can try. Seem it all you do,” Rafa can be teasing and mocking, too.

“Been watching my matches, hmm?” Nick’s standing up (broad yet thin, Rafa thinks about that clay on his skin, red, red, red, like he sees him always, smeared all over, spilled all over them, making the mark of the ownership, shared?). Nick faces him now – daring as always. Ready to let himself known again. Bright star or black hole, bending everything around him to his gravity. Not even the bull can withstand it

“I have to. For strategy, no?”

“Is that the only reason?” maybe there’s a wisp of clay on him still as he gets closer. Maybe there’s clay in his hair like it would be, with the beast set free to pin, to claim, to spill.

“I play many people. I played many people, Nick. Your match is not special. Not different at all.”

“Really? You almost sound convincing. How’s it working out for you?” and Nick unceremoniously drops the towel and starts changing into his hoodie, with one last gleaming grin thrown at Rafa.

Rafa showers longer than he normally would. Even after clay. He tries not think about it leaving Nick’s skin in all shades of red when he showered here before. He ignores the heat in his stomach that has nothing to do with post match victory. He clenches his hands to leave marks on the inside of his palms instead, to channel the growl of the beast this way.

*

_Madrid ‘17_

This time Nick hasn’t showered, tattooed with clay, like a gift wrapped present for Rafa. Clay from his kingdom on Nick’s skin like a seal of belonging. Nick fought bravely but Rafa remained untouched in his red tower. Nick yielded to the bull’s low rumble of satisfaction. As it should be.

“What do you think when you see us in a draw together?” he asks, blunt and honest and a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, maybe. Rafa doesn’t understand this boy. No A young man. Rafa can’t stop thinking about the reasons why, though.

“I told you, Nick. Another match. Another one to play,” Rafa goes to his locker, giving in to his routine. Keeping control. Don’t let the bull see the red on his skin.

“You don’t play me like you play other people. You don’t,” Nick sounds like he’s beseeching.

“I always play the same. To win. It don’t matter who.”

“That sounds almost ruthless. Better than all that polite crap you spill out there.”

“Is not ruthless, Nick. Is the truth. That how you play tennis. Or how you should play tennis,” a purposeful jab Rafa makes, as he pretends to be busy with his bag. Still, he doesn‘t miss the shift in the air as Nick gets himself close behind. Beseeching turned physical.

“You know, in mythology, when a warrior defeated another warrior, it was believed that they possessed their soul.”

“Possessed?” Rafa turns to face that bright red supernova and his gravity. He faced bigger challenges and he’s endured this boy twice.

But the clay seems moulded with his skin now and Rafa’s fingers itch to model him. Or the bull sees red and yearns to chase.

“Consumed, taken, owned. Is this how you feel about me when you win?” Nick’s lips shine with red, that reminds Rafa juice of early November pomegranates. Disturbingly familiar association.

No. It’s not familiar. It’s feral. He wants to drink from Nick’s lips and find out if they taste as red as they look.

Maybe the stories are true. Maybe every time he wins with this boy, the boy does posses him. 

“No, is not feel like this. Too much imagination,” all those years of steeling himself into composure, he manages to sound nonchalant.

“Liar,” Nick smirks to that and leaves for the shower cabins. All red. That burgundy shirt he wears, the skin – dark canvas for clay and that supernova brightness about him. Red. Red. Red.

Rafa’s will is iron. His resolve hardened over the years of rigorous work and dedication. The control in him is unbreakable and the bull behind these thick walls, roaming on court to return placid and obedient.

Until this boy. This daring torero. Red on his golden skin, like wrapped in ceremonial robes on the arena.

Rafa’s moving, or rushing or both. The hooves smashing the ground, like charging to spill red. To cleanse himself in it. To be free from this possession.

Nick is waiting for him, laughter on his face, daring and provoking. A torero never runs. A torero waits for his bull to come to him. He’s naked in the cabin, the spills of red from clay on his skin enrage Rafa. This should be his doing. His, his, his. Pounds inside him like growing roars of an animal ready to strike.

He sheds his own clothes, steps inside and does strike. Hands large on Nick’s biceps, pulling him closer to Nick’s laughter booming in the shower like a mocking sound of judgement.

“I knew it,” Nick grins, his teeth sharp and his eyes gleeful. A torero taunting the bull. Asking for it.

“Turn around,” Rafa grunts, harsh and strict, his hands itching to smear the red all over this skin. And then to claim.

Nick does, eagerly (a clay to model in his hands).

Rafa does. There is no preamble. He fucks into Nick, deep and fast, his fingers leaving red marks on Nick’s hips. Puts a hand on Nick’s mouth, to stifle loud moans. Nick bites it and laughs but the sound disappears into a whimper and Rafa’s coming not to the feel of Nick trying to swallow him so deep and tight and warm into himself but to the sound of his name rolling out of Nick’s mouth in a cry so raw and desperate, it almost sounds intimate.

There are bite marks on Nick’s shoulder Rafa doesn’t remember making as he comes round to Nick’s spasming shivers, to Nick clenching around him, like he wants to keep him inside forever. And maybe in that moment Rafa wants him to.

“You will think about what my face looks like when you come inside me, now,” Nick almost makes a promise or throws a curse or both after Rafa leaving the locker rooms in a hurry. Pretending he won’t be seeing the red spills of clay and his own markings on Nick’s thighs spelling_: consumed, taken, owned_.

*

_Cincinnati ‘17_

“It’s almost annual tradition now, is it?” Nick is bouncing the tennis ball against the locker. Wearing that red shirt like a badge of honour. Like a capa for the bull to break the walls again.

They do clash on court every year now. Rafa tries to convince himself he forgot about Nick’s skin painted red. He forgot about the sounds he’s making when Rafa claims him. It’s been almost a year.

“What is?” he still asks, wondering what Nick is referring to. Does he want them fucking to become a tradition, too? Does Rafa want that?

“That chase we do. It’s a 2-all now. The ball’s yours now, Rafa,” Nick throws it at Rafa with an emphasis. Rafa’s reflexes are quick, as he catches it instantly, but distracted, doesn’t notice Nick striding towards him and now standing very close, all red and golden glory of a wonder kid from before. No. A torero pulling the strings. A torero wining and goading him into a corner.

“You play on, I go back home. No more game between us. Have a good Cinci run,” Rafa states sharply, itching to wipe that triumphant grin off Nick’s face (to tear his red shirt off, to mark his skin red instead) but more itching not to let him give any more reasons to gloat like that.

“I will now with you inside me,” Nick defeated him. Nick consumed him. So why does it feel like Rafa’s still the one possessed?

Rafa doesn’t go home. Not yet. He goes to Nick’s hotel room (or rushes, the hooves stomping against the ground so loud he thinks the whole city can hear him). The red is engraved on the surface of his eyelids now and it wears the triumphant smirk and shades of gold skin to be marked.

Nick doesn’t laugh this time. Because his mouth is too busy with kissing Rafa as he pulls him inside and pushes him against the door with force or desperation or both.

As daring as ever. Rattling the bull on court and off it.

Rafa grabs his hair and yanks it to make them pause.

“No. You won on court. Here, is my turn.”

Nick’s “yes, sir,” gets him hard embarrassingly quick so they don’t even make it to the bed.

Nick is wearing his red shirt, again, gift wrapped for Rafa. Making him flush, sweaty and eager might compensate for the lack of clay but it doesn’t stop Rafa from thinking about taking Nick on the clay court one day. The sharp guilt that follows only fuels his desire and makes him tear the shirt off him in making them even or making Nick pay gesture.

Nick’s wrapped around Rafa in an almost loving manner as Rafa slams against him over and over, making the door rattle, Rafa’s so lost in the feeling of red, and warm and too much he doesn’t manage to get paranoid over the noise. So he doesn’t stop Nick’s moans either. They sound wrecked. They sound delicious.

They don’t kiss. Rafa doesn’t let them, even if Nick is chasing his mouth, ending up with his lips breathing down nonsense to the crook of Rafa’s neck, strangely intimate. Familiar. Deja vu again. Like it happened again. Like it will happen again.

Rafa takes a fistful of Nick’s hair again, to force him to look at him this time. The curse fulfilled before, he wants to be cleansed of it now. But as soon as he sees the lips shining with that pomegranates red, hooded eyes like in fever and Nick’s face full of ache he knows he’s made a mistake and this is what he will think about over and over again, until next time.

“Have you thought about it? About what I look like with you inside me? Better than all your dreams, yeah?” Nick is chuckling now, not gleefully, his voice breaks over every push of Rafa inside him. 

“So full of yourself,” Rafa tuts, knowing Nick’s right, knowing he will carry this image till next time. He fucks into Nick with a new resolve, to see more, to have more, to steal more of that. To break him, like Nick broke him on court. To claim him, like Nick dared to on court.

And the sound of his name around Nick’s moans stays with him too for months to come.

Stays with him until next time.

*

_Beijing ‘17_

This is wrong. This is insane. He watched this boy grow (or not). He was Nick’s initiation on his path of a professional tennis player career.

So, in a way, he was Nick’s first.

They’ve been meeting ever since, every year, in a clash leaving the ground tremble, leaving marks on them. Rafa plays so many people. He wins and he loses, he knows how to handle both. Doesn’t let the win push him into blind pride and doesn’t let the loss knock him into the low. But Nick stays with him, for a long time, after the match is over. Nick rattles the walls, sets the bull loose and the beast doesn’t stay tame for long after.

Even though it’s been claiming its share of winner’s spoils since then.

They have grown into a strange kind of constant. Into the inevitable. Does it absolve Rafa from fucking into Nick’s eager, lose, warm mouth now? Feeling himself over Nick’s cheek as Nick hums around him and takes him in deeper?

Or later on, when Rafa’s spent and guilty but sated and he reaches for Nick to finish him off with few strokes, letting him spill into his hand and latching onto the only red available on Nick which is his mouth. It does taste like pomegranates and Rafa feels himself among the sweet sourness there too and it almost makes him want to go again.

He stays this time. They lie on the bed, facing each other. Dressed, (they didn’t take their clothes off at all, they wanted each other too much). With skin buzzing from ripe satisfaction they gave each other. Almost like lovers. Nick’s stupid Beijing plushie is there with Rafa’s, on the pillow. They look like they are cuddling or doing something else. Either way, Nick snorts and Rafa joins him.

“I hate tennis, you know. Mostly, I do, I think. Except with you,” Nick says after a while. The words sound so loud. So revealing. Nick’s eyes shine with vulnerability in the dim light of the room and Rafa almost touches his face, almost pulls him close to hold him. He doesn’t, though. This is not what they are, is it?

“All that energy, all that good energy, Nick. Why you not take it and bring it for everyone. That energy you have with me, all the time,” Rafa closes his hand on the sheets to not give into the need to touch that suddenly seems to take over.

“I don’t care, man. I really don’t. Except when I play you. Fuck. I can move mountains then, you know. I can do everything. And even when I lose, I feel like I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything else, but play tennis with you,” Nick always brims with so many shades of emotions to see him now, so tame, so raw, so exposed. It feels like this boy is giving him his heart in his open palms.

Maybe that gravity between them has always been about something else? Something more? That feeling of déjà vu. It happened. And it will happen. Ouroboros.

Rafa lifts himself up and sits on the edge of the bed, with back turned. A majestic bull caving in for this boy torero. Not in this life. Not in this time. They can’t be this. The supernova swallows everything within its radius.

Rafa did not notice that it has already happened.

“Sorry, that just came out, like, fuck. So cheesy. Hey, I’m totally fine with casual fucks mostly. Don’t sweat about it, Raf,” Nick’s hand is searching for Rafa’s back in a disarmingly apologetic manner. It breaks Rafa more than Nick’s massive serves do. More than Nick’s moaning around his name like he doesn’t know any other words do.

“I’m sorry. This shouldn’t happen. At all. This is a mistake, Nick. Nothing more for us, but tennis,” Rafa tears himself from that gravitational pull. Nick’s hand, small and warm on his body. Seeking him. it will haunt him more than anything else they did.

Nick’s leaving the bed. Stiff but shaking. The outburst on the brink of crashing and burning. Setting them both on fire.

“You’re a fucking coward,” he’s by the door that quick, but then he turns around to add. A warning. A curse. No. Just a reminder. “You won today. You know how the story goes. So good luck pretending, you don’t think about me all the time.”

The door shuts loudly behind him.

But it doesn’t feel like he left at all. For the next 2 years. The plushie unironically stays at the bottom of Rafa’s closet. 

*

_Acapulco ‘19_

Acapulco is an open war between them. Nick plays his scorned tennis. Throwing vicious accusations or questions at him with unapologetic balls. Demanding the bull to come out. Not to tease him this time. Not to lure him into a trap. But to spill his first blood.

Rafa doesn’t let him. Rafa stays under control of his steel will. He knows how to resist this supernova. He almost got burned alive by it before. A torero is a boy with demands and regrets, wanting his revenge, roaring for it with rage Rafa knows by now conceals a cry for help.

“I partied till 4 last night, do you know? Body shots, dancing and I think there were 5 people in my bed. I didn’t do any cardio and I still fucking won against you,” Nick gloats in the locker room, panting, like he’s been rushing there. Or still high from their match. No longer angry warrior. A petty child instead.

“I thought you tell them it’s a stomach bug, Nick,” Rafa wants to be anywhere but here. With this boy keeping them hostage to their mistakes. To what ifs that should never happen. Can never happen.

“Lousy beginning of the season. Melbourne was a lead balloon and now today. This sucks, man,” Nick mocks concern and stands on his way, preventing Rafa from leaving.

_You become responsible for what you have tamed. _Who this is about, though?

“I will be fine. You win and you lose, that’s tennis, si? Thank you for the worry,” Rafa says, the words empty. Because he recognises Nick’s taunting smirk. When did he learn to recognise the shades of his smile?

He tries to go past Nick, but there’s Nick’s hand on his bare shoulder, not fragile and helpless like then. But clutching like to a life rope. Like he wants to imprint himself on Rafa.

Maybe he already did.

“I won out there. Don’t you want to get even here?” Nick sounds so pliant. Gone is the cocky attitude. There’s lazy eagerness about him Rafa recognises from before. Rafa never forgot. The memories of which have been returning for over 2 years. With various frequency. The images sprung scary thoughts to life. Thoughts that lead him to believe he never wanted someone more than he wanted Nick. Pure, undulated lust.

Until this boy showed him his heart and it was soft and broken and needy. And things got way more complicated than that.

“For good old times’ sake, Raf,” now Nick is closer and purring and sounds like an addict begging for a fix. Maybe he does. Maybe they are each other’s high. 2018 was terrible for both of them. Without that fix. Without that drive. Maybe there was something to it. Or maybe a supernova’s pull was still threatening to burn them both alive.

Rafa leans closer, daring, brave and he kisses Nick’s forehead, as he murmurs. “You hurt no one but yourself, Nick. Doing what you do. Don’t,” and with Nick giving in to his space, open and vulnerable, he manages to go past him and leave.

Seasoned tennis trick. Cruelty comes easy for those who care.

*

_Wimbledon ‘19_

So they’ve come full circle. A boy as swift as the wind and as bright as the sun is now an angry man (or wishes to be one, or struggles to be one); a malicious thunderstorm. He still shines as bright as he did all those years ago.

Rafa knows what Nick means about their tennis. Rafa loves playing, dedicates his entire self to each game. And he never thinks of his opponents as easy to play. But there are very few, if any, that can catch up with that passion he brings on court. More. Who can suppress it and challenge him and even goad him into a corner and make him want to rattle the court.

Nick is one. Always a toredo to his bull. Always knowing how to bring the beast forth to roam. Nothing has changed.

Nick is bitter. Nick is scorned. Nick brings it all on court and makes their game as personal as ever. Rafa wonders how much people can see. His accusations in the shots, his mockery in the traps, his cry for help, for attention in that anxious restlessness.

He thinks they might be an open book about it. Hate is too strong of an emotion to waste on someone you don’t even like. And you hurt that deep and you want to tear under someone’s skin so much only if you care.

Nick is catching his breath on the bench when Rafa enters the locker rooms. So he’s still there, in these dark places where he runs to pretend. So he’s still hurting himself like Rafa asked him not to. _Of course_. Somewhere, in another universe, Rafa is there to guide him, to mould this stubbornness and foolish resilience into efficient energy of a warrior. Somewhere, in another universe, Nick lets him and Nick becomes the greatest tennis player.

But it’s not here. Not now. Here they only carry the scars of the mistakes they allowed themselves to commit together.

“I wonder how do they not see?” Nick says through heavy breaths, like it’s not only about postmatch adrenaline leaving his system. Like he’s suffocating.

Rafa doesn’t come closer, though. A thunderstorm has always been his weakness. _Of course_ it was.

“See what?” still he asks, cursing himself, knowing digging deep here, off court, won’t get them anywhere good.

“Us. Me getting to you like no one does. How do you call this? A bull’s maestro, yeah? It’s not Roger. It’s me,” there’s feverish light in Nick’s eyes when he stands up and looks at Rafa with a challenge. Yet, there’s something so frail about it. A boy beseeching a reality in his head to be true. That helpless hand wandering on his back, seeking life rope.

“So full of yourself. Nothing change,” Rafa shakes his head scattering the thoughts away. He’s not here to save this boy from himself. He’s not here to be anything for this boy.

But a mistake.

Even if it’s true. He was raging out there. For Nick. And Nick kept the strings in his hands, smirking and triumphant like at the beginning. A bull and a torero’s relationship is a co-dependent one. They both fuel each other to glory, into performing their best, a combat for life a combat for death, either way, a spectacle to never forget.

Their every meeting on court is this. The rest is mediocre history. Not a legacy. That’s how they will remember Nick, Rafa thinks. A boy who fought the bull. A boy who enraged the bull. A boy who defeated the bull. A bullfighter. Maybe, eventually, a bullkiller.

Nick’s feverish smirk confirms it. Rafa chastises the thoughts (or memories) of a sour-sweet taste of his mouth away.

“Maybe you should teach me a lesson or two then?” distracted he lets the boy get close. Too close. Like it happened. Like it will.

“I think I just did,” Rafa holds his ground but Nick has always been outrageous and so he practically arches for attention now. Close, warm and gleeful. 

Rafa stopped recognising anger, lust and frustration with this boy a long time ago. The entire game he wanted to grab him, shake him, push him, claim him, it doesn’t matter, with his body or with his tennis. It’s become same thing with them. He loves tennis, he plays for every ball like it’s the first time, like he still has a history to make. But with Nick he feels like the fire can burn for ages to come.

“You know how I need a reminder. You know how bad I am with discipline,” Nick is all red, red, red, and Rafa can taste the pomegranates on his tongue.

It could happen. Again. One last time? Rafa doesn’t know how much time he has left. Rafa doesn’t know how much time Nick has before he destroys himself and everyone within his radius. One last time, pull him close, have that familiar taste (he’s no longer sure if it’s a taste of fruit back at home or a taste of Nick really), sink into this welcoming body (that seems to be made for him) and hear his own name in this throat like a prayer or a curse or both.

“I get married, Nick,” he sounds strained like he’s not entirely convinced himself. And he doesn’t put any distance between them either. “And you need to do choices.”

“I am making a choice, Raf. The only choice that matters,” Nick is taller but Rafa never felt towered over until now. This boy’s power is dangerous on court and off it too. A supernova that destroys and you would let it. Nick breathes it out to Rafa’s mouth, an echo of a kiss, they shared so few of those. Now, will they become regrets or longings for more?

“Have a good rest of the season, Nick,” Rafa breaks the pull and recites the formula he has for everyone, but never for Nick, which will be like a slap on the face. Which will be cruel enough statement to put a stop to this madness they’ve fallen into. 

Or not. Nick’s sneer has traces of boyish vulnerability (of that helpless hand seeking anchor) when he promises or warns. “And you have a good pretending, Raf. Looking forward to seeing you.”

He salutes, so sure (or maybe concealing desperation) and nonchalant (or maybe harbouring scorn and rejection). And Rafa doesn’t wait for the sound of the water running, doesn’t wait for the temptation to push him that extra mile, to fall into that vicious cycle again and again.

Even if it happened. Even if it will happen. Because maybe they are ourobors. Maybe they are inevitable. A bull and his torero.

**Author's Note:**

> *uhm, so what do you mean this is not the actual story behind their saltiness and scorn? (yes, I will burn in hell and yes, I'm ready for the ride)


End file.
